


To Touch A Heart

by Maybethings



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Ashaemad, Drabble Sequence, Dragon Age Holiday Cheer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saemus discovers the Qunari are a more physical people than most. Among other things. Written for DAHC 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Touch A Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [askbroodyelf](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=askbroodyelf).



**i.**

The Qunari, it turns out, are a more physical people than most. Saemus finds this out for himself one day on the Wounded Coast, when the wind is high and makes the beachgrass chuckle amidst the rocks. He tells a really bad joke and Ashaad has to think the punchline through, but he has the satisfaction of seeing him  _actually get it_. The quiet, coughing laugh is accompanied with a close-handed tap to the shoulder that almost makes Saemus jump. While the Qunari apologises for the bright warpaint left behind, brittle red flakes he warns his companion not to touch as he brushes them off, he does not apologise for the contact.

It intrigues the young man. If he has learned anything in his years in high society, it is to watch, and listen, and plan. So he does just that, to try and understand.

 

**ii.**

Ashaad patrols a certain stretch of the Wounded Coast each day, come rain or shine. Nothing seems to escape him—any rock out of place, any unsettling footprint, any new sand dune.

Any new shell on the tideline. Any odd bird, turned from its migration route, lying on the sand looking somewhat insulted. Saemus watches Ashaad watch the gull for a long time, and there is a loneliness in his eyes that does not fully disappear once the bird has steadied itself and taken wing again.

(Later he will tell Saemus the bird is very similar to those that prowl the ports of Par Vollen, looking for fish scraps, mewing shrilly like an Antivan merchant, and the loneliness will disappear.)

 

**iii.**

He spends a whole day with the Qunari once: watching the soldiers go about their work, building fortifications, discussing intelligence, looking out on the ocean, their thoughts their own and their speech, the hiss and rush and roar of the ocean, for their ears only. “Your words are difficult,” Ashaad has told him. “Too many…too many dead sounds, like rocks falling together.” Across his tongue Kirkwall becomes  _Karkhaal_ and Hightown  _Haitaan,_ and some other unpleasant monikers beside. One of them translates to ‘place-of-people-talking-too-much’.

To the outside world they are an unfeeling monolith—among themselves, there is a clear solemnity, but also humour and feeling and rather more people getting cuffed upside the head than Saemus would have ever thought. They demand their space and fill every inch of it.

What others may see as the Qunari shoving and butting among their own, rude and uncivilised, Saemus interprets as them letting others know of their presence: the hand on the back, the nudge of the elbow, the tap on the shoulder. They are big and solid and inescapable, and— _there_. 

His reverie only ends when Ashaad nudges him out of it. The man goes on one more patrol, and tells him to head back before true night falls over Karkhaal.

 

**iv.**

The days grow short and cold and Ashaad’s treks continue, at dawn and twilight on the very edge of the sea. Saemus makes it a point to meet him at the end of each circuit, sometimes just to talk, sometimes with a flask of hot tea if the weather is chilly—and most days now it is.

It happens one too many times to be even considered a coincidence. Neither one minds.

"I guess you don’t get holidays," Saemus says as Ashaad warms his hands by a small fire, the tea already spreading heat from his belly.

"Not as you know them."

"Could you—ask for one?" His ears are suddenly very hot. So are the sides of his face. "Because tomorrow is a feastday in the city and I’d like to spend it with you. If you’re willing. Is that allowed?"

Ashaad is…yes, he’s smiling in his own odd way, one side of his mouth curling slightly upwards. “I can arrange that,” he replies. “Meet me here, then, tomorrow. When the sun sets. There is something I would show you.”

 

**v.**

It snows. After fifteen years in Kirkwall without a single flake to be seen, one drops right on Ashaad’s nose and he sneezes fit to wake the dead. Soon the ground is dusted with white, and the sunset is turned hazy with grey clouds. Ashaad, wordless and nose running behind one hand, gestures for Saemus, sides aching with unspoken laughter, to follow him behind a clump of rocks.

There’s a snug natural alcove there, away from the biting wind, and a small ring of stones that has encircled many a fire. On one side is a small pallet and a blanket, a wide, thick square of fabric folded just so. Away from the outside world, Ashaad lets his shoulders fall just a little as he makes the fire.

"You wanted to show me the sunset?" Saemus asks, eyes watering as he peeps out at the snowy world.

"Something else," comes the reply, as he continues blowing on the kindling. When he’s satisfied that the flame will continue to burn, Ashaad picks up the blanket and throws it over them both. "Come closer. This is not very large."

They wait out the weather, keeping each other warm as night falls. Under the blanket Saemus finds his courage, then takes Ashaad’s hand and squeezes it tight. It is returned as Ashaad moves closer, putting one arm around his shoulder.

They are a physical people. It could mean nothing. Is that not right?

"You sleep out here in the open?"

"Sometimes." Ashaad coughs. "If the patrol is long, or a target is expected."

"It must be cold."

"Yes."

"How do you do it?"

"I think of…home." His eyes flutter shut for a moment. Saemus notices he has short, thick eyelashes. "I think of warm Par Vollen and the cicadas screeching. Then it is not so bad. Ah, see—the snow has stopped falling. Come."

They venture away from the fire, an odd, lumpy four-legged beast lurching over the cold sand. And there it is: undimmed by the city lights, a sky filled with starlight and the constellations close enough to touch.

“ _Maker,_ " Saemus breathes, still gripping Ashaad’s hand tightly.

"The stars are different here." His voice is soft, almost longing. "But they shine as brightly, just the same."

They watch the grand procession for who knows how long, talking of little things, of names and constellations, of places near and far, until Saemus’ head starts to droop. The fire still burns in Ashaad’s small shelter, and they huddle there together, finding comfort in each other’s embrace.

"Thank you for the company,  _kadan_ ,” Ashaad says, ducking to touch his lips to the crown of his head.

“ _Kadan_?” This is a word unfamiliar to Saemus. “What does that mean?”

"It means that you are here. And also—" He takes Saemus’ hand, places it on a patch of skin untouched by warpaint. Under his fingertips and beneath the tough skin, he can feel the jump of a heartbeat. "—that you are here."

This time Saemus smiles. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

Close to each other, warm and loved, the dawn is not far away.

—

**six - an epilogue**

When it is cold on the Wounded Coast, on the long nights when he is staking out the area, the ashaad closes his eyes and thinks of home.

The howling breeze is no stronger than a Par Vollen squall (though no squall would stink of refuse and blood like this). The sand is the sand of home, and the rocks are the rocks of home, and the rush of the waves is the same as anywhere else.

When this does not work he thinks a little harder of Saemus Dumar, increasingly  _kadan_ in his mind. Though his people are nominally the enemy, he is…he defies categorization. Ashaad sees his friend: curious, passionate, earnest and somehow weary, determined to break free from the constraints his life puts upon him. These thoughts warm him inside and out like the midday sun.

But tonight he has no need to think. Saemus is there next to him, murmuring under his breath the Qunari names of constellations that he has just been taught:  _Valokas, Abaneth, Ataashi, Tamassran._ His head is heavy upon his shoulder and he has Ashaad’s arm linked snugly through one of his.

There is no need to think of distant homes when the moment here and now is so precious. Ashaad rests his chin on Saemus’ head and closes his eyes, waiting for the sun to rise.


End file.
